Scorsese’s prince is a pert pup, a quipster on the up and up, but he’s also a triple-plosive time bomb like Travis Bickle (or Jake LaMotta, another human detonator in another Scorsese–De Niro collaboration,1980’s Raging Bull). Scorsese habitually counterpoints the threat of violence with the discharge of humor. The Goodfellas tracking shot through the kitchens of the nightclub leads to a stage-side table and Henny Youngman in full “Take my wife” flow. In Casino, Don Rickles plays a Rickles-like Borscht Belter called Billy Sherbert. In Raging Bull, LaMotta watches real-life straight man Bernie Allen cracking jokes at the Copacabana. LaMotta himself ends up as a small-time comic. His routines resemble the black-and-white futilities of Dustin Hoffman’s reenactment of Lenny Bruce’s monologues in the biopic Lenny (1974).
Like Travis Bickle and Lenny Bruce, Rupert Pupkin is scorched by confusing his transgressive desires with social reality. Thwarted, he reacts by forcing himself onto the screen in the hope that he will impress a young woman and make his mark on the world; in Schopenhauer’s terms, he tries to impose his will on its representation in the world. Scorsese is a lifelong admirer of the dreamlike set pieces in Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s Archers productions, where, he has said, “the fantasy is more real than the reality.” In The Red Shoes, Moira Shearer’s shoes possess her and dance her to death. In The King of Comedy, Rupert Pupkin is possessed by fame. Our last sight is of the red suit that marks his departure from the real world and his entry into the inverted dreamland where the anonymous becomes famous and the loser becomes king.
Pauline Kael missed the point in her review for the New Yorker in 1983. She complained that De Niro inverted the “bravura” extravagance of his characterizations in Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, and New York, New York to make the polite and frustrated Pupkin “a nothing.” Slapstick reminds us that the core of comedy is inversion—of power, of status, of reality. We think fame and money will free us, but Johnny Boy (Mean Streets) and Travis Bickle get shot in the neck. Jimmy Doyle (New York, New York) gets stood up. Jerry Langford eats his TV dinners alone with three TVs and a lap dog. Travis Bickle and Rupert Pupkin, Scorsese has said, are the same “isolated person”: a “nothing” and a “nobody” who dreams big.
But this is not nothing. It is everything. America had always sifted the winners from the losers and called it justice. The modern status economy of images plays the results back in everyone’s face. And the postindustrial economy that took off in the 1980s replicated the fame economy that sorted Americans into a small population of stars and immortals and a mass of ticket-buying “nothings.” When Rupert Pupkin inverts dreams and reality, he performs the loyal American act of chasing his dreams, of getting what you want, at any cost, even if for one night only, like James Cagney at the “top of the world” in White Heat.
Naturally, The King of Comedy bombed at the box office. The critics eventually caught up—two plosive hard k sounds and two cheers for getting it right in the end. Rupert Pupkin’s triumph of delusion previews our culture of self-reflective entertainment, in which show business incites and rewards performative psychosis. Like Mike Judge’s Idiocracy, The King of Comedy told the truth about America. But who goes to the movies for the truth?
Rupert Pupkin, that’s who. And all of us, too—pursuing enlightenment in the dark. When we perceive Pupkin perceiving himself under the TV studio lights, we see ourselves. Our laughter confirms German gagmeister Artie Schopenhauer’s analysis that humor erupts when we realize our ideals do not match our perception. As the FBI waits for him in the shadows, the Hamlet of humor tells the truth in his kiss-off to his first and last audience: “I figure it this way: Better to be a king for a day than a schmuck for a lifetime.”
You might as well laugh.